Time and Treasure and Blood and Bone

 We will be sacrificed. 

We are born into a world made of altars.

Stone and wood and steel and bone.

We choose where we bleed.

We choose where we sweat.

We choose what gods we feed.

Pass among these corridors of streetlights.

Seek your gods that sacrifice back.

Until you learn the price is never paid for

By these petty constructs

Sometimes people are nice to each other

So give them your heart 

And hope the time and blood and treasure and bone

Will let the gods leave your tribe alone

The Art Faucet

 When I was young, I had to wait for art. I had to set my watch and prepare for the shows I wanted weekly. I had to search the record stores for cool things, search the channels of the radio, and maybe talk with friends who knew something. I had to find books, physically find them. I had to go to libraries and bookstores and use card catalogues and search. 

Even pictures on the wall had to be selected, framed, and placed.

Art is a faucet, now. A water bill is paid to a water company, and the art is available on demand, whenever I turn the switch. I can adjust the dials to get exactly the art and water I desire, as cool or hot as the mood strikes. I can call out to it in a crowded room without lifting a finger and the water art turns on. I can hang a tv on a mantel and it slides through all the pictures I desire and I never have to choose.

It’s just there, the art, flowing whenever the button is on, and I can dial it however I like, and never have to be patient or tolerate anything I don’t. I open my phone and push the book button, and books appear, and I simply swipe my finger until the dial gives me what I want.

The water art companies are always tracking, to try and put things close at hand that I might want to drink. They are always watching.

When you are in the business of making drops of water, they sell that water very cheap, don’t they?